His
by thewanderers'wanderingdaughter
Summary: Final part of the His Little Bird series. This is how it ends. Dark. Non-con.
1. Part I

**Usual Disclaimer: All Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. This plot is just my idea.**

**Final installment of the His Little Bird series in at least four parts. **

**These events take place a couple of months after His Persephone. **

**Need I remind you that this is going to be dark and angsty?**

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Part I

Before the final battle, the Malfoy boy had been a topic of great interest and confusion amongst Voldemort's followers. To be sure, his successful mission the year before had convinced them all he was not the coward many had assumed him to be, and more than a few were surprised he had managed to pull it off. Lucius was proud, Bellatrix more so, but Narcissa had only wanted her son to be safe.

If Voldemort was surprised that Draco had been successful he never showed it. His words to the young man had been sincere, there was potential in him and the Dark Lord had found himself strangely eager to see what would come of it if he encouraged it. With a little pruning here and there, perhaps the boy could surpass the rest of his family in both ability and rank.

In all truth the Dark Lord had intended for the boy to die in the mission. He had been eager enough before taking on the task, often accompanying his father on missions and revels even when his presence was not needed. Had he died, Voldemort would never have felt a loss, for followers he had enough. What he needed was assurance that victory would be his in the end. The daunting task, should the boy have failed, would have hurried the arrival of the final battle and shaken everyone else out of their idiotic false sense of security. But everyone had been taken by surprise when he arrived, bloodied and barely controlling his temper but victorious nonetheless.

The look he had given him then! A daring, knowing look with an upwards tilt of the corner of his lip, as if to say, _I know what you meant to do, and I beat you_.

Such insolence would never have been tolerated but the mere fact that the boy knelt there before him, _alive_, was enough to give the Dark Lord pause and he found he was…_impressed_.

Dumbledore was no longer an obstacle and he had the Malfoy boy to thank.

He had looked down at the young wizard and thought _here_ was promise. Who else among all his devoted could have accomplished such a feat? Bella, perhaps, but she was wilder than the devious Fiendfyre and short of temper, Voldemort was without doubt she would have lost patience and instead choose to blast her way through the castle to complete the task. But the boy…

Bella and some of the others had been assigned to train him to the best of their ability. Luckily, Draco was in want of almost nothing; already having adapted to the nearly emotionless state long ago by influence of his father and was already adept at wandless and noverbal magic. His skill in dueling was great. He was ruthless and conniving and it didn't take much imagination for Tom Riddle to see a little of himself in the young man with the pale hair.

The case of Narcissa's ailment worried Draco constantly-that and the Gryffindor girl. The Dark Lord himself was proficient enough in Occlumency that he could slip into others' thoughts with relative ease, unless he wished to torture his subject of scrutiny. He often studied Draco thusly and found his thoughts mostly divided between an overwhelming desire for the girl and an anxiousness regarding his mother, who grew worse with every passing day.

That Draco thought so much about the girl did not bother him. The boy needed some form of release and he had clearly chosen it in the girl, it was clear by the amount of fantasies he had built up in his head. The only problem was that the girl was not there to relieve him. There were days when Draco had showed exponential progress and there were days where the Dark Lord was disappointed. That the boy was frustrated was evident, it was soon after these trying sessions that Draco began his crimes in both Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade. This distracted him sufficiently for a while and he flourished, but they ended quickly and after his second attempt to abduct the witch failed, his performance dropped again, and the Dark Lord himself was irritated enough he was very seriously considering having the girl either killed or abducted by his own men to end it all, but Draco was transformed after that experience. Fueled by rage, by impatience and lust and so many other things, he was deemed strong enough by the Dark Lord to end his training, but his obsession with the girl had not ended. The Dark Lord himself offered assistance in capturing the girl time and time again but Draco flatly refused, intent on doing it on his own. He had been working on devising yet another plan to capture the elusive object of his lust when by a pure stroke of chance she all but came to him. That had settled matters quite nicely for everyone except the unfortunate Gryffindor, who found herself in a nightmare scenario.

Then came the trouble with Narcissa. Both Lucius and Voldemort had always known what was wrong with her-Voldemort because he was the one who had shown them the book in which the dark spell, but by both the elder Malfoy's request their son remained in the dark. Or so they both thought.

The Dark Lord had shown Draco the cause of his mother's suffering out of curiosity; wanting to know how the boy would react to the knowledge that he had been lied to all this time about the nature of his birth, and rightly so, Draco had been furious. The Dark Lord had claimed there was no way to reverse the spell or vanquish its effects but had Draco not let himself become so distraught and looked closer he would have seen there was a page missing. This page, which had been destroyed sometime earlier by the creature that held it then, held the cure.

Narcissa had been the last obstacle, the Dark Lord had thought to himself. With her gone, her son would reach his full potential. But he had failed to realize what damage the girl could do to his careful plans.

When the Granger girl was first brought to him all his stealthy attacks upon her mind were resisted ably, and he was forced to torture her in hopes of obtaining the information he wanted so dearly. He had taken no pleasure from violating her other than the pain it caused her. This was a message without words for his protégé. However great he might become it was all because of him. As easily as Draco had gained all this power it could be taken away should he let himself become too distracted. He had already begun to suspect Draco was becoming too attached to the girl. The girl was dispensable, he wanted to make that clear. He had seen the brief alarm in Draco's eyes when he had ordered him out of the room and almost expected him to refuse.

By then the others had begun to think the Dark Lord was merely having Draco trained to become his new right hand or even a new leader amongst them, such as Lucius had once been. Draco had thought this too, especially since his Aunt Bella had confided in him that Voldemort suspected Severus was a spy. Severus himself had been keeping a low profile all that time, but swore his loyalty remained with their side. He had remained so until the final battle, during which he revealed himself by coming to the aid of the Order when both Tonks and Remus had been cornered and outnumbered by a group of five Death Eaters. The Potions Professor took them all by surprise but none more so than Remus. They had thought the occurrence had not been seen by any other but somehow word got around to the Dark Lord, who was understandably angry. After the battle Severus' headless body was found in the greenhouse, his blood covering the better part of the floor.

No one on their side had expected the Dark Lord to die. That had not been part of their plan. Very few had known about the Horcruxes. Not even Draco had been honoured with this crucial information, and yet it was through him that Hermione learned of the diadem. If not for that seemingly unimportant remark about the tiara the final battle would have had a different outcome.

Hermione had suspected it, but no one else could have imagined Harry had been the seventh Horcrux. The Dark Lord had not been able to conceal his shock upon seeing the Boy-Who-Lived rise again after being thought dead. In his last, unsuspecting moments, Voldemort realized what that meant for him. Though he still dueled Harry fiercely he did not scream with rage when the Killing Curse hit him. His last malevolent grin unsettled those who were so unfortunate as to see it but was forgotten (except by Harry, Ron and Neville) the moment his body hit the ground. Their final confrontation had been brief but would forever remain etched into the witnesses' memories and in the many written accounts that were written afterward.

Draco had not been there to see his master die. He had been so focused on bringing Hermione back to him that he had paid no attention to the happenings in the courtyard-all he could see was her. But she had escaped him again because he had let his guard down and Flitwick had found him and the second Flitwick's tiny little body had fallen to the ground he simultaneously heard the sound of Hermione Apparating away and the overjoyed, victorious cheers from the courtyard. That second of pure sound was all he needed to know his side had lost and he himself retreated before anyone else could find him, but not before entering the dim Shrieking Shack and taking Blaise's body with him.

Nothing was safe from him once he got back to the Manor. He was so angry he took it out on anything within reach. The twin defeats of the day were great and devastating to him; that his wife should slip out of his grasp yet again and that his master had allowed himself to be killed. If only he had not let himself become so distracted by following Longbottom, whom he had found quite by accident and followed discretely, wondering why on Earth the great fool carried with him the sword of Gryffindor. Draco had watched Neville slice at something and then run off seconds later. His intent had been to follow Longbottom and kill him but to his utter amazement Hermione had appeared then and he went for the obvious choice. But now that he was alone, accompanied by Blaise's lifeless corpse and the ruins of his study he had forgotten his fury for the moment and allowed himself to think.

And think he did.

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**A/N:**

**I meant to start writing this earlier but I've been feeling so unmotivated towards writing lately. Took me ages to just start plotting this out and then typing it is a whole different story. All the same, I've figured it out now and I hope you enjoy. **

**We'll be hearing more on Draco next. **

**See you soon,**

**C**


	2. Part II

**I own nothing and nothing owns me. **

**Just to be clear: The first chapter was a little insight to certain characters during His Persephone and His Little Bird. This chapter here continues some time after the last chapter of His Persephone. Implications of non-con, but nothing explicit.**

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Part II

Throughout her life Hermione Granger had been known to be many things. Intelligent. Brave. Strong. Successful.

Failure was one word she'd always striven to make sure she would never associate herself with.

She had failed.

In failing with the one chance, she'd unknowingly secured herself more firmly to him, for now he would take no risk wherever she was concerned. If things had been bad before they were infinitely worse now; he had strengthened his grip on her so much she swore that even when she was alone she could feel it physically, like he was squeezing the air from her lungs, the very life from her body.

Weakly, her eyes fluttered shut, seeking rest. Beneath her lids, black was all she saw. The darkness was all she had wanted; a blissful nonexistence. Freedom.

She would never have it now.

The last thing she remembered about that day was standing on the balcony. She had no memory of falling but did not need to remember to know she had done it. After that she'd woken, believing herself dead. There had been fear-what came next? She was in utter darkness; there was no other sound save for her steady breaths as she tried to calm herself. As she regained consciousness she tried to move, and found that she couldn't, to her surprise. When she looked to her side and realized her body was bound to the bed, the calm fled and was replaced by a crushing disappointment and the doubt of her success took hold of her.

In the midst of all this her own heart beat steadily rose from the static until it was the only thing she could hear; it drummed wildly in her chest like it wanted to break from the cage of her ribs to announce the last thing Hermione wanted to hear in that moment.

_You're still living._

Something else caught her attention-the green emerald flashed brightly at her from her hand, restrained as it was on the bed.

Once she might have fought against the binds that kept her still but all her energy was gone. There was a small temptation to scream and rant and curse but her voice had abandoned her, apparently. When she opened her mouth no sound came forth, and this didn't bother her. She didn't feel like talking, anyhow, she had no strength left.

Sleep called to her. Hermione longed to submit to it, to let her mind fall blank for some precious hours but she was too uncomfortable. The binds had her spread out on the bed; vulnerable and powerless. She longed to turn onto her side but felt too weak to do it. Her arms felt stiff and sore, her stomach rose slightly with the breaths she took.

The wait had not been long. She'd kept her eyes on the door the whole time, fighting off the exhaustion as best as she could. His bedroom was dark and suffused with a cold that could be felt through the bedclothes she wore. She had expected him to come through the door but he came from the shadows instead, where she had not thought to look for him.

If he'd been there the whole time she couldn't know. Her eyes turned to him and her breath hitched for one brief second before she forced herself to keep breathing, however uncomfortable she felt under his frighteningly calm gaze.

His voice was hoarse, yet as fierce and cold and sharp as steel, just as she had always known it.

"You will _never_ do that again. I forbid it."

Hermione made no reply. Her gaze floated up to the ceiling.

The bed dipped under his weight. Helpless, her body shifted towards him.

"That was _extremely_ reckless of you, Hermione. If it weren't for the charms I put on the ring you would not be alive now."

_What did you think I meant to do, then?_ She longed to ask, but deemed it better to remain silent.

"I caught you before you could hit the ground," he went on. "The ring slowed you down but I had to stop you completely with magic."

His words hit her like a physical blow, knocking the breath from her lungs.

That was the worst thing he could have said. Of all the things he could have said this cut her most deeply. To have gone so far only to learn she had not even come close to her goal.

_I never even hit the ground. _

Suddenly she was free-her limbs dropped down to rest on the bed and a small groan of relief stuck in her throat, but died quickly as he enshrouded her with his arms, stroking her wherever he could reach in a feverish manner, as if he was checking she was well and truly there and not just a figment of his imagination. Hermione's body jolted at the touch and she whimpered softly, but gave no resistance.

"Don't you dare ever try to leave me again," he ordered. "That was the last time you break your promise, I swear it."

There was no reply from her.

Three times she had tried to escape and twice she had failed. The one time she had succeeded she had made the mistake of going just where everyone would suspect her to go: to her friends; her family. That was where he found her, and they were the ones he'd threatened to kill unless she gave herself to him. Hermione knew now she should have gone elsewhere-anywhere but the Burrow, where her mere presence put those she loved in danger. It was a mistake she would never make again.

The only problem was now there would never be another chance. It was certain as the sun would rise in the morning. The heavy thought settled inside her, weighing her down. Draco's arms held her in place where she fell apart, chaining her to him with his embrace.

His lips were warm as they pressed against hers, parting open her mouth to suck lightly at her upper lip. Feebly, Hermione turned her head away, struggling to breathe.

Gods, she hated him touching her. All she had wanted was to be free from this. Why couldn't he just have let her perish? Why did he want her to suffer so?

"Don't fight me," he said softly. "I won't hurt you."

The feeling was barely returning to her arms. Hermione could barely stir let alone push him away. Pressed tightly against him, his heat transferring into her body, Hermione longed to cry, but no tears came forth. He made her promise over and over again she would never leave him; and she had made no notion of agreeing to it, which he took as her acceptance.

"I know you're unhappy," he murmured to her. "I'm sorry it came to this, I am-but I couldn't live without you, Hermione-I need you with me."

_You're being selfish,_ she wanted to shout_. I don't care what you need-let me have what __**I**__ want. Let me free or let me die. For once, just give me what I want._

"I'm going to take care of you, okay?" He pressed a kiss to her cheek, the tip of her nose. "I'll get you through this. The world will be ours."

The days after that were a blur. Hermione didn't remember much afterwards but Draco told her she had spent most of nearly every day in bed. Dimly, she remembered the smell of her unwashed hair, the feeling of Draco's arms around her as he lowered her into the bathtub, the warm water within. She didn't want to remember the pain that had threatened to overwhelm her every day, it was too great.

He told her how he'd feared she might lash out at him again, but she'd remained still and silent, except the few times she allowed herself to cry. And the days kept passing and she lost hope.

Since that first desperate, desolate day something had been destroyed inside her, she had lost something vital to herself, and wondered if it would ever make any difference should she ever regain it. Escape was no longer possible; she didn't even bother to try looking for any new way out, if there were any. Draco did not let her out of his sight, he took her with him almost everywhere he went in the Manor, unless he decided he needed privacy for one thing or another then the new House Elf was to attend to her. Hermione spent the days reading, but her attention could never stay focused on the words before her for too long; often she found herself staring at empty space with nothing but silence filling her mind. Thinking of her friends was too painful, of Harry and her parents hurt worse so she avoided that as best as possible.

When she grew tired of reading she walked. She was not yet allowed to go outside again, at Draco's command she'd been barred from so much as pushing one toe past the doors. Once he saw fit to do so, he would allow her to tread as much ground as she liked, but for now this was to be endured, so she was condemned to pace away her agonies inside the Manse, but large as it was she felt extremely confined, and felt she was only growing worse.

They ate all their meals together, they spent nearly all their time together, and they slept together.

Now the Dark Lord was dead, there was no one to summon Draco away at any odd hour. With his mother and father laid to rest there was no one to visit. There was no Blaise to come and speak to Draco, to make jokes.

When the silence grew too great to bear Draco had Hermione sing for him. Hermione would have preferred not to-singing never gave her pleasure anymore, but he gave her no choice. Nor comfort, for that matter. Lonely, lovely and sad, her voice would fill the great house and his ears-just her voice was enough to remind them how lonely they were. Neither had much learning in any instrument-Hermione at first scoffed at Draco's purchase of a grand piano and his intense desire to learn to play it, but as she had not much else to do, found herself learning little by little, but only when he was occupied with something else.

Draco often spoke of them going someplace else.

"Where would you like to go?" he'd ask as they sat in his study, gesturing towards a map he'd spread out on the coffee table. "Perhaps we could live in France for some time? Or would you rather visit America? It's been many years since I visited Italy. What do you think sweetling?"

"I don't care," she said each time. He knew where she truly longed to be, and yet they would never go there, so there was no point in asking anymore.

Neville and the others would never come, this much she knew. It could be years before she got another chance. What was there left to do? She was not herself anymore; this became more apparent with every passing day. Draco kept his word and never made her drink Amortentia again, but still the change manifested and she had become someone else.

There had been some strange days when Draco had cooped himself up in his study for hours, scribbling away on torn pieces of parchment, poring over ancient, nearly unreadable books with faded, incomplete illustrations. In the past Hermione would have been worried; fearful even, but now she was curious at best, and found herself relieved at the loss of his company, however short its duration may have been. On those days he kept the door to his study shut with nothing but a strip of light underneath it to show he was inside, and she was left to do as she pleased with Joffy the House Elf accompanying her.

Then one afternoon he had left with a strange gleam in his eye, and returned visibly triumphant, holding a wand she was sure was not his and she'd never seen before but felt vaguely familiar when she looked at it. She found herself wondering who he had taken it from, if he had taken a life to acquire it-was this what he had been after? It was only a wand after all. When he told her about it, (the Elder Wand, it was called) and its origin, she couldn't help but laugh. It was the silliest thing she'd heard in a long time; she couldn't believe that he believed the story to be true. But when he told her from which grave he had taken it from her scornful laughter had stopped at once.

He used the wand that night to keep her from resisting him when he touched her, and he had no qualm about sharing how else he had desecrated the great wizard's tomb, which only added to Hermione's nightmares.

After that he began spending more time in his study, writing notes and drawing up plans for something big. Hermione didn't know what any of it was for, everything was charmed so she could not read it, but she dreaded it just the same. He began to create his own Potions laboratory in a spare room, fortifying the walls and adding protective enchantments all around in case of an accident. The Elder Wand had done this, it had spurred his actions and Hermione sensed nothing good would come of it.

To keep herself from stewing in worry for too long Hermione found other things to do. There were some Ancient Runes books in the back of the library that she found by chance one day, and other books in different languages, so she took it upon herself to translate those which she could to the best of her ability. She drew maps though she wasn't very good at it, and practiced the piano more fervently. She asked Joffy for tools for gardening and busied her nervous hands with soil and fertilizer and tiny, fragile little seeds. After a while she had to stop, however. It reminded her too much of Neville. If she thought of Neville then Harry would come soon after, and she was desperate to not think of them, so she ceased her gardening efforts, and the little shoots that had begun to sprout withered quickly.

Draco had remembered her hobby of knitting and supplied her with tools to make whatever she desired. Hermione busied herself making afghans and throws and long, heavy jumpers-anything to keep her fears away. Everything she made was for herself until Draco took a liking to a green turtleneck she'd recently finished and wore it once or twice, then asked her to make more. Hermione didn't dare refuse-with the wand at his side he'd grown stronger, and more dangerous. He had not hit her once since her attempt at ending her life, but no matter what he'd promised Hermione did not want to invoke his anger over something as trivial as this, so she did as he asked, though she resented him for it with every click of her needles.

That was only on the days she felt like being productive, however. Most days Hermione felt too tired to do anything. At Draco's insistence she would drag herself out of the bed and dress herself, but would fall asleep again once breakfast was over, during which she scarcely touched her food. Reading and all her other hobbies were done for the sake of doing something, for depressed as she was enough of her old self remained that she could not bear to be idle. But as it happened, quite often she found herself with little energy to do anything but sleep. This was a means of escape that required hardly any effort, and she did it often and gladly, but once awoken her moods turned sour once again.

Months passed in this manner, and at the end of the sixth Hermione began to sense that Draco's plans were near to becoming reality, if it not already begun. Though he told her nothing about this, it was not hard to guess-there was a fierce, determined air to him as of late and she knew it was only a matter of time. In turns he grew excited and impatient, annoyed and withdrawn. Whatever he had planned, it was obvious he was sure of his own victory and she found herself with the savage, mean hope that someone, preferably Harry, come and strike him down at last.

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**A/N:**

**This was a long time in coming. Sorry for the wait. **


	3. Part III

**All related to Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.**

Part III

[one month later.]

The winds howled and the open sky grew steadily darker above him, blanketing everything in shadows. There was a sharp snapping sound around him as his cloak flapped wildly in the mighty gales, more than once he had to push it away from his face to keep it from blocking out his sight. The rubble under his feet shifted and scattered quietly as he moved through the ruins, taking in the wreckage.

All the empty cells gaped back at him, eerily illuminated by the moonlight that peered timidly at him from behind the rolling clouds. The remains of the iron barred doors, which he had blasted to pieces shortly after his arrival lay strewn about the floor or by force of his magic were impaled into the wall; their jagged, broken ends stared menacingly at him as the menacing figure passed by.

The former occupants of the cells had left only moments ago, after he had spoken to them and they fell to their knees to pledge their loyalty to him. That they had done eagerly, rushing forward in droves to grasp reverently at his cloak, to touch their dirty mouths to his boots, murmuring their gratitude to their newly risen Lord, their Savior. The Dementors gave them no trouble, of that he had made sure some time ago. Once he had arrived they disappeared, off to some other place, to await his next summons. The guards, sparse as they were, had been dealt with swiftly-at least, the ones that hadn't been maimed by the flying debris.

He took another look around, relishing his victory for a few seconds before backing away.

It was time to move on before unwanted company arrived. There was more needed to be done. Draco turned away, and vanished with a muted _crack_.

Joffy waited on him the moment he arrived, taking his cloak and heavy robes silently.

"How is she?"  
The creature shook his head. Draco envisioned her the way he'd seen her before he'd gone, curled into a ball beside him, wrapped tightly in heavy sheets, hiding her face from him. When he pushed her hair aside to better see her face she didn't respond, but flinched when he kissed her good-bye.

"Is she ready?"

"Yes, Master," Joffy said in a high voice.

_Good._

"Leave me," he said. The elf squeaked in reply and bowed before going away.

As he climbed up the stairs he pulled off his thick black jumper and carried it the rest of the way. His skin rose in gooseflesh at the sudden warmth in his home, a stark contrast to the biting Autumn winds that howled outside.

When he entered his room he began to wave his hand to light up room but there was no need. Although weak, the light coming through the great stained-glass window was enough to illuminate the bedroom.

Immediately his eyes found her in the semi-darkness, and he smiled, pleased. For all she claimed to hate that window she spent a good deal of time there huddled in the seat at its base. It made him happy to know she appreciated it, if only a little. She would need whatever comfort it gave her in the times to come.

And him. He would give her comfort too, for she would always have him no matter what she said.

The silver food tray glinted dully when he passed it-the food was half-eaten and the corner of his mouth twitched upwards as he looked into the empty teacup on the bedside table. Straightening his mouth, he moved on.

Sometimes, when he left her in Joffy's care he would come to the bedroom to find the patient elf standing silent at the window whilst his wife brooded or slept. When she slept, she sometimes ended up with her palms pressed against the cool glass, her head bowed reverently, as if praying during slumber. A strange sight-it stirred the faintest whispers of pity inside him, but he pushed those aside quite easily. She could pray all she wanted but that would change nothing.

There were no gods; she would learn that soon enough. More time was all she needed-if she still had not grown accustomed to her situation (which he doubted-she'd always been a quick learner) then he would help her learn. It was high time she accepted this, accepted him.

With these thoughts in mind he made his way towards the window where his wife watched him with shrouded eyes, concealing what she felt beneath a veneer of indifference. It was another tactic she had developed, one of many that aggravated him. He cared nothing for this false mask; he wanted the fear, the hate and misery that lay beneath, not this blank face. Not only that, he wanted her happiness. He wanted her love. Anything she had to offer, he wanted, and he would have it.

To test her, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, then reached down and undid his belt slowly. The clinking of the metal prongs was the only sound in the room, amplified in her ears and muted to his.

There it was. Fear flickered in her eyes and she drew back instantly, pressing herself against the glass.

He smiled.

* * *

After the news of the second mass breakout in Azkaban was relayed, everyone broke into worried whispers and wondered who could have done it.

"The _second_. Merlin," Fred said, "Voldemort's gone. Who else has got that much power?"

"Not a single Dementor to be seen. All abandoned their posts-d'you think they've joined forces with the other side again? But why? There's no one to lead them."

"They'll be comin' after us! Best to raise the wards again!"

"It's him," his voice cut through the rest of the voices and they died out rapidly.

The others stared at him. Many of them looked worried.

"Harry…" Mr. Weasley began, but was cut off by Ginny, who had elbowed him.

"I'm not crazy," Harry said. "I'm not."

Headmistress McGonagall cleared her throat. "Potter, no one has made that claim."

Ron spoke up from beside Harry. "We know it's him, Professor." Neville and Ginny nodded.

The aged Headmistress peered at them intently over her half-moon spectacles.

"You were there when the body was discovered," she stated.

"Yes."

On the last days of the Hogwarts cleanup, which had lasted around a month, Draco Malfoy's body had been discovered in ruined Room of Requirement. Fred, George and Harry had stumbled upon the corpse, half hidden by a pile of broken chairs, and they had immediately summoned the Headmistress.

Everyone was relieved at the find. No one knew who had killed him but it didn't matter as long as he was dead. Only Harry, Ron and Neville had been suspicious. They could not readily believe it would have ended so easily as this.

"You were there when it was positively identified as Draco Malfoy's body."

Harry clenched his jaw.

"Yes, Professor. But that wasn't Draco Malfoy."

Some of the members of the Order groaned, others listened more intently. This was not the first time they had heard this exchange. Harry often brought it up, claiming something was not right, but because he had no evidence at the time many found it difficult to believe him. Something felt different this time, though, and they wondered if they would finally have answers. McGonagall unfolded her arms and stood straighter.

"We've been through this before, Potter. Have you any evidence to support your claim?"

Neville stepped forward. "I saw it with my own eyes, Professor."

She looked at him sharply. "When? Where?"

"In his dungeons the night Hermione disappeared, I think. There was two of him. One was dead, and I heard him say it was Blaise Zabini under Polyjuice Potion."

There was silence around the room as the assembled group processed the information.

"Granger disappeared _seven_ months ago, Longbottom. Why didn't you tell us sooner?" Her voice was the sharpest anyone had ever heard it, and everyone struggled not to wince.

"I was Obliviated," he said, looking sorry. "Malfoy did a number on me with that spell-I've had to fight to remember what I could, it only ever came back in bits and pieces-I wasn't sure I even believed it at first-if I myself couldn't believe it, who would believe me?."

"Why was Malfoy holding you prisoner in the first place?"

Now Neville looked lost. "I-I don't know."

"We think Malfoy's the one who took his ear," Ron said.

"But _why_?"

Now Harry spoke up again. "To get Hermione to go back to him."

McGonagall looked worried. She turned to Neville. "You have no recollection of seeing or speaking to Miss Granger whilst you were held prisoner?"

"No, ma'am. I've tried to remember everything that happened that day, but I think he cursed me too, after he Obliviated me. Every time I think I come across something new I black out, and it takes weeks to get to that point again. The only face I remember seeing is his, both dead and alive."

"You think she went back to him to save you? That he used you as hostage?"

Neville reached up to where his ear should have been. "Yes."

"Did he say anything about Mr. Zabini? Did he confess to killing him?"

"Not that I can remember."

The Professor reached up to touch the brooch at her neck. "You think he still has Miss Granger."

Harry nodded.

"Hold on," Dean Thomas broke in, "I thought she ran away by herself?"

"That's what we thought at first, but it doesn't make sense. We were going to help her find her parents," Tonks said. "Why would she have gone alone? And _why_ leave her wand behind?"

"That and the fact that we found Neville wandering around the Burrow a day later," Ron added. "Didn't know why he was there, what he'd been doing, where he'd been in the past few days. Both him and Hermione disappearing within days of each other was strange, especially when Neville came back short one ear."

"We were sure it was Malfoy at first until the body was found. That made us think maybe we were wrong, until Neville started remembering."

The Professor looked at the three of them in turn.

"This is quite a lot of speculation we are dealing with."

"We know, Professor, but it's all we have. Besides," Harry said, drawing something out from his pocket, "I think we can prove it."

Everyone peered curiously into his open palm, expecting to see some damning sort of evidence. A photograph, a vial with a recent memory of the accused to prove he was not dead.

What they saw instead was a rusted key.

* * *

[three months later]

Rodolphus, Crabbe and Goyle had left minutes ago, and Draco finally had everything he needed. Making sure to handle the items carefully, he deposited them safely into his makeshift Potions lab, locked and warded the room, and went on his way to the bedroom. The hour was late, the meeting had been abrupt and unplanned, but such items were not easily come across and were like to be tracked down if they remained with his men for too long a time. This, coupled with recent events, had him well pleased. Things were falling into place, as they should.

His eyes were heavy with exhaustion. Draco found himself wondering if Voldemort had ever needed sleep-he wasn't quite human, was he? Draco had never seen him eat, either. Perhaps he should have asked Aunt Bella when he still had the chance-she might have known.

Undressing himself with a flick of his hand, Draco entered the bedroom quietly, not wanting to wake Hermione should she be asleep. The notion was wasted, however, as he found her quite awake at her window.

She looked like a goddess, wearing that white dress and sitting in the light. There were parts of her hair that glowed in the weak, rainbow tinted light and danced along her pale skin and he was enthralled at the sight of her.

But as he stepped closer he could see her shoulders shaking slightly, the unhealthy pallor of her skin, consequence of both her confinement and her emotional state for the past months. Both would be changed soon, he assured himself.

Another step and he was directly behind her, his front grazed her shoulder blades.

Her shoulders shook harder, he could hear her dry breaths quicken, and then he realized she was speaking.

He strained his ears to hear properly, she was speaking so quietly.

"Please," she was whispering. "Draco."

He brought himself closer, and his hands rested on her shoulders, which he noticed were now rigid, held stiffly to ward off the shaking. Her skin was cold, when he reached around and bent forward to kiss her, he found her lips were dry and cracked but still warm above all, her eyes had been closed but once he'd touched her they had flown open and she stared, unseeing into the glass.

He caressed her neck with his nose, inhaling her unique scent. The smell of lavender hung heavy in her hair, it lingered on her skin.

"Please what, little bird?" he brushed his lips against her throat. She didn't turn away. "What is it you want?"

"Let me out." His hands tightened in her hair and she drew a shaky breath. "Please. I want to see the sun. I want to go _home_."

He didn't say anything, only turned her head to the side and kissed the corners of her mouth, licking at the tears neither had realized she was shedding.

"Think what you're doing, I'm not ready…I don't want this! Not with you, _never_ with _you_…"

Draco brushed her tears away gently with one hand, the other reached across her to hold her waist.

"Please, Draco, please don't make me do this. Don't, d-don't." The rest of her plea was rendered almost incoherent by her sobs.

"Don't cry, sweetheart," he murmured softly. "We've talked about this."

Hermione shook her head, wrestled against his hold. "You _tricked_ me!"

What a fool she had been, a great big fool. She had woken up so thirsty that day, and never thought how strange it was that Joffy was already there waiting with a cup of tea when tea was usually brought along with breakfast hours later. The elf didn't have to insist she finish it, Hermione downed it as fast as she could to relieve her throat.

No one had told her that her tea had been spiked with a fertility potion. And when Draco came home…

Draco always performed a Contraceptive charm in the beginning, then took to having her take it in potion form through her food-that way she would not dream of starving herself-it was either eat and be safe one day more or risk falling pregnant.

With everything that had happened lately she had allowed herself to hope that he had abandoned that desire, that perhaps, upon seeing the state he had driven her to, he would let her in peace in that respect but she had been wrong, so wrong…

What had happened to her? She should have suspected, should have known!

His hands were on the swell of her belly now, fingers spread over the mound that would continue to grow in the coming months. She had not suspected anything was wrong until later that night, and she'd confronted him as best as she could, tried locking herself into the bathroom, tried ridding herself of his unwanted gift. There were no razor blades she could use, no rope or wand, nothing but water. The water surrounded her in the confines of the tub, stroking her with the steam that rose up from its depths.

She had not been under surface for long when she was pulled back out savagely and crushed against his trembling body.

_Don't you dare,_ his eyes said to her. _Don't you ever dare._

Since then she was never alone again when near water. In fact, if things went the way she knew Draco hoped they would, she would never be alone again.

Her protruding belly almost disgusted her. She could barely stand to look at it for long, let alone touch it. He'd taken her body from her-she might still have control of herself but in the end she had no decisions left to make, almost no say in what happened, and she hated him for it.

Hermione pressed her palm to her mouth to stifle her grief, almost faint with rage.

Hermione thought of the child she was being forced to carry, and wondered if she could ever love it. What if the child grew up to be just like his father? Fear constricted her throat-Draco wanted a boy, what if it wasn't?

If Harry knew, would he still love her?

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't. What had she done to warrant such misery? Which gods had she angered, that they would allow this to happen? She was sure she had been a good person before her capture-what was she now, that she had given up?

It wasn't that she had given up, exactly. She simply had no choice. No power. And that just made it worse.

She tried to stifle her sob, but her lips parted and an anguished little moan escaped her instead.

Draco felt her moan vibrate in her throat and he picked her up carefully. He laid her down on the bed and settled over her, stealing hard, possessive kisses from her lips. She turned her head away; tears nestled in the corner of each eye.

"You'll be a good mother, I know it," he said as he nipped her ear. She jerked at the pain.

"Please, just listen to me!" she clutched at his arm. "You're making a mistake. Neither of us is capable to raise a child…especially you."

For a brief second Draco looked like he might strike her, she flinched when he brought himself closer to her.

"That may be, darling, but that doesn't mean we can't learn. There's no going back now." His hands pulled up her skirt, then busied themselves pulling the fabric aside on her chest to reveal a naked breast. His thumb circled her areola softly, and Hermione reached up to grab his hand.

"Draco," she breathed, trying to make him see sense one last time, "_please_. This is going to affect us both, can't you see that? A child-with everything you've done, everything you're going to do, it isn't safe…"

"You will always be safe with me," he assured her, falling silent to wrap his mouth around her nipple, laving at it with his tongue just the way he'd learned she liked it. Against her will, her nipple stiffened. Hermione's head fell back on the bed and she bit her lip to keep from crying out as his hand snaked up between her thighs. "Whatever I do in the future will only add to that, darling bird, remember that. Trust me."

"With you I am never safe," she insisted, and pressed his hand against her tummy. "This is proof."

Draco silenced her by pressing his lips against hers.

Once he had finished Draco rolled onto his side, and gently slung a protective arm across Hermione's middle, holding her close to him.

Hermione looked into his face; asleep, he appeared angelic. The picture of the perfect husband, the kind anyone could hope for. Until he opened his eyes she could pretend he was, but she could never pretend, for the truth was too real. Briefly, she had the urge to stroke his cheek; she wondered what he would do if she did, and how quickly he would react if she raked at his eyes with her nails, if she tried to smother him with her pillow, squeeze the life from his body with her bare hands.

He never spoke of Lucius, or his upbringing, and Hermione dared not speak of Narcissa, not after what happened last time, which led her to wonder. Had his childhood been full or fear and terror and hate, or as unremarkable as hers had been, up until she received her Hogwarts letter?

_Can a monster be a good father?_

She didn't know. She didn't _want_ to know. She didn't want to be in this situation, period.

_Trust me._

The words made her want to rock with laughter-she would have, if she dared.

_Yes,_ she thought angrily. _Trust the man who is forcing you to carry his child. Trust the man who has done all this to you._

Her arms folded across her stomach, careful to avoid his. Just feeling the distended bump made her face contort with sadness but she kept herself from letting the tears fall.

_It isn't fair,_ she thought again. _It isn't, but that isn't your fault. You didn't ask for this, and neither did I, but I promise that to my last breath I will keep you safe from him. _

She looked at Draco again with her arms still folded over her middle.

_I'll make you pay for this._

* * *

**A/N:  
For those of you wondering, yes, Hermione knows about what happened at Azkaban, and Draco hasn't told her yet but she's figured out what he's doing. (The Order hasn't found out yet about Draco's grave robbing.)**

**To explain why Neville can remember about being in the Manor despite being Obliviated: Draco focused more on erasing his memories of seeing Hermione there before he was released. Draco obscured everything else to give himself time; what memories Neville has from being prisoner **_**were left there for a reason.**_


End file.
